


running on empty

by cherrysik (skyways)



Category: VICTON (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, M/M, Murder Mystery, Mystery, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, there is a lot of pain i am sorry, there's humour and cuteness too i promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:07:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25395871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyways/pseuds/cherrysik
Summary: In the midst of trying to solve the hardest case of his medical examiner's career, Seungsik's path crosses — far too often to be coincidence — with a mysterious man named Han Seungwoo. Problem is, all records say Seungwoo has been dead for years.(Or: Love, and loss, and how Seungsik learns to cope with both.)
Relationships: Han Seungwoo/Kang Seungsik
Comments: 42
Kudos: 94
Collections: Lucky 7 Victon





	running on empty

The worst case Seungsik's ever had the (mis)fortune of taking starts on a Tuesday morning like any other, amidst piles of paperwork and a cup of americano helpfully slid across the table.

"Have some coffee, you look terrible," Chan quips, brightly, in lieu of a greeting. Seungsik decides to ignore him in favour of taking a large swig of his coffee, gulping down the too-bitter liquid in a sad attempt at shaking off the sleep clinging to his eyes.

Tuesdays are meeting days, decided upon by the police chief. Sometimes Seungsik wonders why they don’t have their meetings on the first day of the week, which would theoretically be the logical choice, but then again none of them have regular working hours. It’s always late nights and early mornings, and a never-ending stream of cases. At least this makes Monday mornings a tad more bearable.

Chan’s a beacon of light in the dreary dullness of the police station, or so he likes to call himself. Seungsik teases him for it, and so do the rest, but he supposes it’s true, in a way. It’s nice to have someone his age in the workplace. They’d clicked easily the first time they’d met, slipping into a comfortable rhythm as if they’d known each other for years rather than minutes. The whole office agrees Chan’s jokes are terrible, but Seungsik laughs at them anyway, in the same way that he always packs an extra Tupperware container for Chan whenever he brings his own lunch to work.

“Earth to Seungsik,” Hanse drawls, slumping into the chair next to Seungsik’s, his tie crooked in a sharp contrast to Chan’s perfect windsor knot.

Seungsik blinks, then huffs. “That’s _Seungsik-hyung_ to you,” he chides lightly.

He reaches for his coffee cup, downing another gulp as if to wash away the sleep tugging on his eyelids. He needs to wake up, and quick; the cases of the week will occupy him and then some.

As if on cue, the conference room door swings open. Police Chief Jung Eunji walks in, heeled boots clacking on the tiled floor.

Barely seconds later, Sejun barrels into the room, jacket slung haphazardly over his shoulders, lanyard flying up to almost hit him in the face. “I’m sorry I missed the bus please don’t tell me I’m late—”

“For the third week in a row, yes, you are,” Eunji deadpans. “That’s three extra hours of paperwork total. Tardiness is unacceptable, Officer Im, please keep that in mind the next time you decide to treat yourself to a Subway sandwich,” she says, the corners of her lips quirking up in amusement.

Sejun shrinks in his seat, cradling his squashed teriyaki chicken 6-inch to his chest. Hanse snorts, and Seungsik has to hide his giggle behind his cup.

“Anyway, now that everyone’s here, I’ll get straight to the point,” Eunji says, switching on the beam projector and starting up the computer. “Come in.”

Deputy chief Son Naeun enters the room, Jung Subin trailing behind her. Subin’s a bit of a celebrity in the police station; not only is he the youngest profiler to have passed the certification exam in their district, but he’s also _phenomenal_ at his job. The number of cases he’s helped to solve far outnumber his years of age.

It’s not a usual occurrence for them to sit in on the weekly meetings, however. Deputy Chief Son’s usually busy coordinating the patrol operations, and Subin’s often consulted on a case-by-case basis. Seungsik doesn’t remember the last time either of them attended a weekly meeting, much less at the same time.

“You’re probably wondering why I’ve called them here,” Eunji says, noting the questioning looks on everyone’s faces. “There’s a case that has been brought to our attention. I’ll explain the details later, but essentially, the four of you and Profiler Jung will form a special task force. Sergeant Heo, I’m appointing you as the team leader. All of you will be relieved of your regular duties for the most part, so that you can fully devote your time and attention to this case. Does anyone have any questions?”

Even if Seungsik had questions, they don’t formulate themselves in his sleep-addled brain. It’s too early in the morning for any of them to process all of this, really. A special task force? What is this case, exactly, that requires such dedicated effort?

“If there are none, then our meeting is adjourned,” Eunji declares, snapping her briefing file shut. “Officers, please remain here; Deputy Chief Son will brief you on the details of the case. Examiner Kang, you’ll follow me to the autopsy lab. I have something I need you to see.”

_Yoo Kihyuk, 35, death by asphyxiation,_ is the way Seungsik’s introduced to the cadaver on the examiner’s table.

The body is clean, unmarred save for the needle mark on its neck. They’ll have to take a blood sample to determine what substance it was, but with no other visible trauma it’s likely to be the cause of death. Probably pancuronium, or just plain air. This one should be fast, at least, unlike when the bodies are so mangled that it takes weeks to produce autopsy results.

Except Yein pulls back the sheet, and Seungsik’s brows furrow.

Three stab wounds, parallel, neatly aligned. They run up the left side of his torso, evenly spaced and deliberate.

“Overkill,” Seungsik muses, gloved fingers pressing carefully against the incisions. “These were inflicted postmortem.”

Yein nods. “There’s a lack of venous clotting. I ran some tests just to make sure, and there’s no evidence of coagulation or living tissue trauma. The Mallory trichrome stain came back with low results for fibrin.”

Pausing his ministrations, Seungsik turns to face Yein. “The incisions are unnecessary, but too deliberate. What was the cause of death?”

“That’s the thing,” Yein sighs, slumping down into a chair. Even with most of his face covered by a surgical mask, Seungsik can see the frustration that threads itself through his brows. “Everything came back clean. We couldn’t find any substance that matched with anything the forensic team found at the crime scene. Or rather, they couldn’t find any trace of a murder weapon at all, much less the perpetrator.”

“And the other reason I called you in,” Eunji says, holding out a manila envelope to Seungsik, “is this.”

Seungsik takes it after peeling off his gloves. There are two case files inside, both labelled unsolved.

The first one is _Park Sunwoo,_ seventeen years old at the time of death. Excessive blood loss due to injuries sustained from a twelve-storey fall. He’s smiling in his identification photo, but not in the one of him lying battered on broken grass, blood pooling around his head and blooming across his high school uniform. On the examiner’s table, the single stab wound on his sternum is stark against the white of his skin.

The second is _Ji Hyungjoo,_ dead at 25 years old. His traffic police vest is fluorescent in the photos, even amidst the smoke spilling out of his patrol car. Coal briquettes, and two stab wounds where his collarbones meet. They’re neat, vertical, identical marks. Once cleared of blood and photographed under the glare of laboratory lights, they resemble the Roman numeral for two.

“A signature,” Seungsik breathes.

Eunji nods. “We weren’t sure at first, but this third case confirms it. Overkill, stab wounds, the number of incisions increasing with each victim. We’ve got a serial killer on our hands, except we barely have any information on them.”

“There wasn’t anything suspicious found in the other cases, either?”

It isn’t an unprecedented occurrence, but it’s definitely a rare one. Seungsik has seen his fair share of murders, but they’re usually cut-and-dry. Sloppy crimes of passion, cowardly hit-and-runs, and the like. Inexperience and impulse leave behind trails that are easy to pick up on, if you know where to look. For a first murder to have been as clean as Park Sunwoo’s — that’s suspicious, and more than a little unnerving.

“Not a trace,” Eunji replies, gesturing to the case files. “Whatever’s written in there is all we’ve got. We don’t have any concrete leads to chase, and we have no way of predicting, much less preventing, the next murder. If the media finds out about the stab wounds, they’ll have a field day with it, which is why I've decided to create a special task force dedicated to this case. That's where you and the rest of the team come in.”

“But if there aren’t any leads…” Seungsik trails off, tentatively. If there’s been nothing found so far, how are they supposed to find something new? How is _he_ supposed to find anything new?

“For now, just look over the three cases and see if you can find any patterns,” Eunji says. Then she smiles, apologetically. “I know it’s a daunting task, but I have faith in you and the rest of the team.”

Seungsik’s gaze falls to the body on the examiner’s table, stiff and grey. The stab wounds are almost mocking in their precision.

“I’ll try my best,” Seungsik says, offering a small smile in return. “I won’t let you down.”

The task force is given a conference room to themselves, desks set up in a makeshift mini-office.

Seungsik gets the one next to the large window, the one that has rays of sunlight streaming in and casting long shadows over it. No one else wants it, because the heat is going to be unbearable in a few months once summer rolls around. Seungsik likes it, though. He barely gets to see the sun down in the autopsy lab.

The investigation is already underway, stacks of case notes and photographs piling up on their new desks. Seungsik’s been poring over the autopsy reports for the past few hours, trying to draw connections but drawing blanks instead.

The rest of the team is gathered around the evidence board, peering at whatever little information they have so far. Chan’s rearranging the magnets for what is probably the fifth time. Truth be told, they’re all more than a little antsy. Byungchan, the forensic toxicologist they’d handed the crime scene samples over to, had said the test results would be out by 3pm latest. But it’s already 5pm, and there’s still no news.

It takes several rounds of rock-paper-scissors to see who gets the honour, as Sejun puts it, of calling Byungchan. Seungsik loses, of course.

He presses _call,_ and promptly has to hold his phone a good distance away from his ear as the opening notes of Britney Spears’ _Toxic_ blares through the speakers.

“What do you want, I’m busy,” Byungchan says upon picking up, impatience audible in his voice.

Seungsik sighs. “I thought you said the results would be out by 3pm?”

“If you think it’s so easy, why don’t you come and do it yourself,” Byungchan grumbles, petulantly. “It’s taking much longer than expected. I couldn’t find anything based on the initial tests your team recommended, so I’m running some other screenings just in case.”

“Not a trace at all?” Seungsik asks. Byungchan makes an affirmative sound, and Seungsik sighs, again. “Okay, then. Thank you for your hard work, and please let us know if you manage to find anything,” he says.

Byungchan hums, by way of answer. Seungsik’s about to end the call, but then he pauses.

“Oh, and Byungchan?”

“Yeah?”

“ _Please_ at least adjust the volume of your ringtone,” Seungsik groans, and promptly hangs up on Byungchan’s cackling.

There’s an inconsistency.

Seungsik looks up at the clock. It’s one a.m., which means there won’t be anyone left that he can run his findings through. He doesn’t know when it’d gotten this late; he’d waved the rest of the team off when they’d gotten off work, saying he’d leave after he finished what he was working on.

He hadn’t actually been working on anything, which is precisely why he’d stayed. He doesn’t like feeling this incapable, doesn’t like having nothing to show despite days and days of work. At least now he’s finally found something, though he isn’t entirely sure what it means.

There’s the barest trace of a substance, found in the seams of Park Sunwoo’s red scarf. In between the fingers of Ji Hyungjoo’s gloves, too, and under the button threads of Yoo Kihyuk’s starched dress shirt.

It’s no wonder that forensics didn’t pay much attention to it. The substance is _lavandula,_ or lavender, after all. It could have come from anywhere; could very well have been blown there by the wind, or brushed off on them upon a visit to the florist’s.

But it’s a little too perfect, a little too neat, to be mere coincidence. Something doesn’t sit right in Seungsik’s gut.

It’s past midnight, definitely past working hours, but Seungsik shrugs on his coat anyway. He takes a torchlight and an evidence kit with him as he leaves the office, determination firm in his footsteps.

The streets of Seoul are unexpectedly tranquil at night.

If he hadn’t seen the case photos, he wouldn’t have believed that this was the site of a murder. The sidewalk has been scrubbed clean, devoid of any trace of the body that was slumped against the brick wall just a few days ago.

Truth be told, he doesn’t know why he’s here. Neither his experience nor his expertise lie in field investigation; he’s been cooped up inside most of his career and then some. But there’s an itch beneath his skin that burns with the need to do something, to be useful in some way without the need for another corpse to arrive at his examiner’s table.

He crouches down. Shines his torchlight where the wall meets the ground, and finds no crevices. Surveys his surroundings, and finds no plants within sight.

Then his torchlight catches on a shadow that darts back into the darkness, and Seungsik starts.

“Who’s there?” Seungsik calls, tentatively. He takes one step, two steps into the alleyway, the glare of his torchlight surprisingly steady in contrast to the pounding of his heartbeats.

There’s no response. Seungsik’s just beginning to wonder whether it was a trick of the moonlight, when a hand suddenly closes around his wrist and yanks him into the shadows.

It happens too quickly for him to react. One second he’s standing in the alleyway, the next he’s pinned against the brick wall, a gloved hand pressing over his mouth.

“Is it _you?_ ” The stranger snarls, almond-shaped eyes dark and piercing above his mask.

Seungsik’s confusion must be evident on his face, because the stranger pulls back, just barely, just so he has room to breathe again. “No, it can’t be you,” he mutters, more to himself than anything else. Removes his hand from Seungsik’s face, though he keeps his gaze trained on Seungsik, as if daring him to scream.

“Who are you?” Seungsik whispers, trepidation making his voice catch in his throat.

“You don’t need to know that,” the masked man says, dismissive. Then he tilts his head, questioningly. “Why are you here? To check out the crime scene?”

Ah, so he knows, too. He’d probably seen it on the news, or overheard it on the train. Seungsik just has to be careful not to let any details slip. Maybe he could even find out information from this man, if he has any, if he’s willing to give it.

Seungsik nods in response, and the stranger’s eyes narrow. “What, are you the police?”

“No,” Seungsik replies, truthfully, and it’s then that it sinks in how stupidly reckless he’s being. He has no police badge, no handcuffs, no gun. No way to defend himself. He shouldn’t be this calm, but he is.

Somehow, he can sense that this man won’t hurt him.

“I’m the medical examiner on this case,” Seungsik says, too honest, too trusting, as always. “I thought I should see the crime scene for myself, so here I am.”

The stranger studies Seungsik carefully, as if weighing his options, as if sizing Seungsik up. Then his gaze softens to something a little like curiosity. “The medical examiner, huh. Interesting. So tell me, what have you found?”

“I’m afraid that’s confidential information,” Seungsik replies, lightly. “Besides, I don’t even know who you are.”

“Trust me, that’s a good thing,” the stranger says. If Seungsik squints, he can almost see a hint of sadness in his gaze, buried behind a whirlpool of emotion in impossibly dark eyes.

Seungsik smiles, just a little. “I think I should be the judge of that, shouldn’t I?”

The stranger pauses. Then he chuckles. “You’re cute,” he murmurs, amused. “Tell you what. If our paths cross again, perhaps I’ll tell you more then.”

One second he’s there, and the next he’s not, disappeared back into the shadows he came from. Without the stranger’s hands pinning him to the wall, Seungsik slides down to a crouch, adrenaline leaving him in a long exhale. The scent of lavender lingers in the air.

There’s a discarded lollipop stick by Seungsik’s feet. He eyes it for a second, then takes out an evidence bag and pockets it.

Monotony quickly gives way to dismay when a fourth victim is found two weeks later, hanging from the rafters of a Catholic church.

His name is _Choi Yoon._ He’s 36 when he dies. The noose rests taut around his clerical collar, suspending him above the rows of pews.

On the examiner’s table, with the rope cut away, the ligature marks unfurl grotesquely over his crushed larynx. At least his death had been fast, quicker than asphyxiation would have been. Seungsik has to peel away the priest’s shirt to reveal the four stab wounds in the centre of his chest, arranged in a cross like the rosary that dangled from his hand as he dangled from the rafters.

Maybe he’d been praying, in the moments preceding his death. Seungsik hopes he’d managed to find peace before he’d gone.

A few days later, after the autopsy and initial investigation are completed, Seungsik goes to the church. He sits in the pews, and waits for the masked man to come.

He does come, several hours later. Sits down on the opposite end of the pew, masked and with a baseball cap slung low over his head. At this time, in the dead of the night, they’re the only ones here.

“You’re _Han Seungwoo,_ right?” Seungsik asks, though it isn’t a question; he knows it’s the truth. He just doesn’t know how. “But your records show that you’re legally dead.”

It had been a shock. He’d asked Hanse for a favour, asked if he could run the lollipop stick through the DNA machines to find a match. Of all the possibilities Seungsik had envisioned, he’d never expected the words on the computer to say _deceased._

Seungwoo studies Seungsik for a long moment. For a fraction of a second, something wild, something dangerous, flashes in his eyes. Then he’s laughing, the corners of his eyes crinkling with mirth.

“You’re a smart one,” Seungwoo says. “How did you find out?”

“You left a lollipop stick behind,” Seungsik points out. “Isn’t that quite careless for someone who isn’t supposed to be alive?”

Seungwoo chuckles. Leans in. “Well, I didn’t expect that there would be someone this interested in me.”

He’s close, too close. Seungsik flushes, turning his face away and averting his gaze.

“I’m just— curious,” Seungsik says, breathily. “You’re intriguing.”

“Am I?” Seungwoo still hasn’t moved away, is still crowding him against the edge of the pew. “That’s funny. I find you plenty intriguing, too.”

“Me?” Surprise lowers Seungsik’s guard, turns his head back to face Seungwoo. “Why?”

Amusement twinkles in Seungwoo’s eyes. “I wonder,” he says, noncommital. Then he tilts his head, just slightly. “But I’m sure you’re not here to ask me that question, are you?”

Seungwoo suddenly pulls back, leaving Seungsik flustered and off-kilter. Seungsik clears his throat as if to right himself. “You’re right, I’m not,” Seungsik says, voice carefully even. “I could report you to the authorities, but I won’t. I want answers, instead. Why were you at the crime scene? Why are you here now?”

Seungwoo’s moved back to the other side of the pew, but his gaze is still the same, unflinchingly intense. “How kind of you,” he says, tone light and airy. “Well. I guess you could say I was looking for something, or should I say someone.”

“Who?”

“The murderer,” Seungwoo says, voice dropping to something deep, something menacing. “Same as you.”

Seungsik blinks. The room suddenly feels several degees colder. “But why?”

“I have my reasons.” Seungwoo’s turned away from him, gazing straight ahead at the large wooden cross hanging on the wall. “Besides, don’t we all have our demons?”

It’s clear Seungsik won’t get an answer to his question. He falls silent, trying to phrase his next question better, only for Seungwoo to speak before he can.

“How about this,” Seungwoo says, slow and measured. He still isn’t meeting Seungsik’s gaze. “Let’s work together. You’ll tell me what you find out, and I’ll do the same in return. We both want this murderer captured.”

It feels akin to making a deal with the devil. Every rational cell in his body knows that this is playing with fire, that he’s only going to end up burned at the stake. Seungsik shouldn’t do it, not when Seungwoo is a man that isn’t even supposed to _exist._

But he has to do it. For the four corpses in the mortuary, and for the fifth that has yet to come. For the fifth that won’t, _can’t_ come.

“Deal,” Seungsik says, and hopes he won’t regret it.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Seungwoo knows the alleys of Seoul like the back of his hand. Knows the dead ends to bypass, knows the shadows that the security cameras don't capture. It's a blessing, as long as Seungsik doesn't question how Seungwoo knows, as long as he pretends there isn't a medical examiner's card stashed into his back pocket with the words _Seoul Metropolitan Police_ embossed across the top.

Seungwoo leads Seungsik to a door tucked away behind winding streets and shrouded corners. Leads him down the steps to a quaint basement room, surprisingly warm and cozy contrary to all of Seungsik’s expectations.

There’s an empty whiteboard standing in the middle of the room. On the long table, there’s a can of whiteboard markers, and stacks of post-it notes. The amount of preparation Seungwoo had put in would be endearing, almost, if not for the situation that they’re in.

“So,” Seungwoo says, uncapping a marker. “Tell me what you know.”

They pore over case reports and mindmaps late into the night and early into the next morning. By the time the sun rises, their whiteboard is covered with post-its and marker ink and photographs held up by magnets.

It’s more than Seungsik could have done on his own. To his surprise, he makes a great pair with Seungwoo. More often than not, they’d been on the same wavelength, springing off each other’s deductions. It’s a rapport he doesn’t think he’s ever felt before.

Maybe they could solve this. Seungsik hopes they can.

“Have you found a match yet?”

The team is at the forensics lab, peering over Hanse’s shoulder at the rows and rows of data on his computer screen.

“Man, I _wish_ I could just insert these fingerprints into a machine and get results in an instant,” Hanse drawls with a sigh. “Unfortunately, I’ll have to stare at them for hours and hours and _hours_ until my eyes are _this_ close to falling out.”

Hanse raises his hand to indicate just how much, index finger and thumb practically touching (for emphasis, of course). Chan rolls his eyes, batting Hanse’s hand away.

“You say that as if you’re going to be the one doing it,” Chan points out. “Aren’t you going down to Incheon tomorrow? Dongyeol’s going to be the one suffering, not you.”

Dongyeol, the new forensics recruit, nods emphatically from the other end of the room, lower lip jutting out in a pout. Hanse’s grandmother is sick again, so he’s taking at least a month’s leave off of work to take care of her.

“Hanse’s going to text me at least twice a day asking for updates, I can feel it in my bones,” Dongyeol whines, slumping over onto his desk. 

Chan gasps, dramatically. “Oh my god, I know how that feels, Hanse never shuts up in the group chat,” he complains, pointing an accusatory finger at Hanse.

“At least you don’t get phone calls at 3am asking you to accompany him to get ice cream,” Dongyeol sulks. “Just because I like ice cream doesn’t mean he can use it against me!”

Chan’s opening his mouth, ready to lament some more, when Seungsik corrals him in a headlock. “Yes, yes, poor suffering Heo Chan, your concerns have been heard, now it’s time to get back to work,” Seungsik teases, ruffling Chan’s hair.

“Noted, _Kang_ Seungsik,” Chan huffs, disgruntledly shoving Seungsik off him, and Seungsik can’t help but laugh.

By the time they leave headquarters, Seungwoo locking up behind them, night has fallen.

The smell of petrichor lingers heavy in the air. Seungsik hugs his box of case files to his chest, as if to protect it from any raindrops dripping off rooftop tiles.

He doesn’t notice the puddle ahead until his foot slips from under him, skidding out too fast for him to right himself. Seungwoo catches him just in time, hand resting on the small of Seungsik’s back to steady him.

“Careful,” Seungwoo murmurs.

Seungsik ducks his head, embarrassed. “Thank you,” he says, shifting the box’s weight in his hands. “I’ll get going now, then.”

He turns to leave, only to wince as twinges of pain shoot up his leg. Seungsik reaches out to brace himself against a streetlamp, gingerly testing his ankle, then looks back to give Seungwoo a small, embarrassed smile.

“It’s okay, I don’t think it’s that badly sprained,” Seungsik says, reassuringly. Seungwoo studies him for a moment, gaze dropping to his leg, then lets out a long exhale.

“Wait here,” Seungwoo instructs, and then he’s disappearing down a side street without even waiting for a response.

Confused, Seungsik waits. Counts the raindrops splashing onto the sidewalk until Seungwoo returns, pushing a bicycle with him.

“Get on, I’ll take you home,” Seungwoo says, taking the box from Seungsik and placing it in the bicycle’s front basket.

Seungsik hesitates, scuffing his shoe against the pavement as if to show his ankle can hold weight. “It’s okay, I don’t want to trouble you,” he says, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly.

“You’re in no state to walk home alone, and I would really not rather have my investigative partner out of commission before the culprit’s even apprehended,” Seungwoo points out. Seungsik’s about to protest, but Seungwoo gestures to the box of case files, lips curving up in a teasing quirk. “I’m not going to give these back to you until you’re home, so hop on or I’m taking them with me.”

Seungsik falls silent, lips sulking just slightly. Then he limps towards Seungwoo and gets on the bicycle behind him, fingers reaching up shyly to hold onto Seungwoo’s jacket.

They ride like that for a while. Seungsik watches as the streets of Seoul pass by, then clutches onto Seungwoo’s jacket tighter as they round a corner, his uninjured leg tensing against the foothold.

“You’re going to fall off like that,” Seungwoo says, simply.

It’s an invitation. Seungsik takes it, slowly inching his hands forward until he’s holding on to Seungwoo’s sides, hands curled into loose fists.

All too soon, they reach Seungsik’s apartment. Seungwoo lingers on the sidewalk, and Seungsik lingers in the doorway.

“Do you want to come in? I’ll make you something warm to drink, it’s the least I can do,” Seungsik asks, breaking the silence tentatively. He feels bad that Seungwoo had to go out of his way to send him home; feels like he should thank him properly, in return.

Seungwoo raises an eyebrow, an amused glint in his eye. “Don’t you think inviting me in is moving a little too fast? I didn’t know we were at _that_ stage already.”

Seungsik flushes bright red. “No, wait, I didn’t mean it like that! I, uh,” he stutters, then pouts when Seungwoo laughs, brightly.

“Remember to ice your ankle before you go to sleep,” Seungwoo says. “Rest well, Seungsik. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The next morning greets Seungsik with a new dead body.

It’s part restlessness, part morbid curiosity, that has him following the team to the crime scene. The forensic officers are already there, collecting samples and laying down yellow evidence markers. There’s a chalk outline on the ground, its left foot overlapping with a stagnant puddle of rainwater.

Seungsik’s off to the side, examining the gate and wondering what route the culprit had taken to break in, when he hears a crash. Runs over to find Chan sprawled on the ground, arm bent at an awkward angle, a toppled ladder next to him.

“I was trying to examine the top of the circuit breaker, except I, uh, fell off the ladder,” Chan explains, sheepishly. Sejun groans, as if he can’t believe what he’s hearing, but he helps Chan up anyway.

Seungsik insists on accompanying Chan to the hospital, latching firmly onto his uninjured arm. Chan tries (and fails) to shake him off, but it’s halfhearted, more an attempt at acting suave than anything else. He complains about Seungsik’s _mom tendencies_ the entire way there, but Seungsik can tell he’s glad for the company, and Seungsik is, too.

The victim’s name is — was — Lee Eunho, and he was a handyman at an orphanage. Stepped in a puddle on a rainy day and got electrocuted by the live wire he didn’t notice. There are five stab wounds running up his leg, neat and precise.

The autopsy room has a glass wall for observation. On his way out, Seungsik walks past Chan and Sejun, who’d come to watch the autopsy. Chan’s right arm is in a cast, covered with marker scribbles ranging from _see, you’re more clumsy than I am_ (by Sejun) to _kekeke_ (by Byungchan) to _get well soon, hyung!_ with a heart drawn next to it (by sweet, lovely Subin).

“How many times do you have to see dead bodies,” Sejun muses, “before you get used to them?”

“I still haven’t,” Chan replies, lightly. “No matter how many I’ve seen.”

Seungsik can relate. The dead bodies he’s cut apart and sewn back together loom in his nightmares, blood and guts spilling from their seams as they ask, over and over again, _why didn’t you save us?_

Seungsik joins the profession more out of necessity than by choice, stepping into the shoes his father leaves behind when he retires. It’s expected of him — good grades, quiet personality, the son everyone’s mothers compare them to. He hadn’t wanted to rebel.

No, that isn’t right. Of course he’d wanted to, of course he’d had his own dream. He sings in the shower as a child and then in the practice room of his high school band years later, fingers curling around the microphone like that’s where they belong. He attends after-school science hagwons by his parents’ wishes, filling up his hours with lessons and more lessons, but the free time he cobbles together is spent sketching melodies in the margins of his notebooks.

The truth is, Seungsik does rebel. He secretly applies for Kyunghee University’s College of Music, and submits it alongside all his applications to medical schools. Perhaps it isn’t so much an act of rebellion as it is an act of defeat, a last-ditch attempt at placating his aching heart. At least if he gets rejected, he can tell himself that it isn’t meant to be, that it’s a sign for him to give up on his dream — a _child’s_ dream — once and for all.

Seungsik doesn’t expect to be accepted, not one bit, but he is. The acceptance letter comes after four offers from prestigious universities’ schools of medicine, after he’s already resigned to erasing the semiquavers in the margins, to erasing his dreams with them. He doesn’t have to anymore. His heart is singing, leaping at the chance, so he takes it, fills out the matriculation form before he has a chance to second-guess himself.

His parents are supportive of him. They always are. They buy him a condenser microphone for him to record his songs with, and they ask him for tickets to his performances. But Seungsik sees the way his mother brings up graduate school, _medical_ school, with hope shining in her eyes. Sees the way his father still takes out his old lab coat from the back of his wardrobe, the one he’d held up to a ten-year-old Seungsik and said _this will be yours someday._ Sees the way they smile at him so sincerely, so proudly, whenever he talks about the songs he’s written, yet there’s always something wistful in their voices, a note of sorrow he can’t quite ignore.

He doesn’t think he can bear to dash their dreams. So he tucks his own into a box instead, stows it away somewhere deep in his heart, and files an application to switch majors.

Some days, Seungsik's job feels like trying to empty the ocean with a rattan basket. Like catching rainwater in his hands and having it slip through the gaps in his fingers, in the same way that every new body on his examination table is another life lost, another life reduced to being pried apart for whatever information it can give.

Seungsik’s learnt to harden his heart by now. Or so he likes to think, but well. Maybe if he tries hard enough he can pretend he doesn’t see lifeless faces in his dreams. There’s no place for sentimentality in their field, not when every second spent distracted is another second wasted.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Seungwoo’s voice interrupts his musings, a welcome call back to reality. There’s a fresh mug of tea in front of him. It’s chamomile, with a dash of honey.

“Just thinking,” Seungsik says. “Sometimes I wonder what I’m doing in this field. I don’t think I’m really cut out for it.”

Seungwoo tilts his head. “Why do you say that?”

Why, exactly? He feels like an impostor in his gown, feels like he’s everything a medical examiner isn’t supposed to be. If he were better at this, maybe the bodies on his table would yield more answers, would save more people. If he were better at this, maybe he’d be able to cut them open without carrying their suffering in his heart.

The only time he's useful is when someone dies.

Seungsik doesn’t know how to say any of that. Says, instead, “I feel like a disappointment.”

Seungwoo smiles, wryly. “Do you want to know the reason why I’m legally dead?”

_Seungwoo runs away from home somewhere into his teenage years. A few weeks later, he finds his photo in the obituaries of the daily newspaper. His father would rather have no son at all than a failure of a son. Seungwoo can’t say he’s surprised, really. He folds that issue of the newspapers up, uses it as a coaster for his instant ramyeon, and promptly forgets about it in a couple of days._

_(He doesn’t actually manage to forget, of course. But pretending he doesn’t remember helps to take a little of the sting off, so he does that, and tries to focus instead on how the sky no longer feels like it’s caging him in.)_

A month passes, then two.

None of the bodies that arrive at the lab have six stab wounds. The task force holds their breath, as if waiting for the shoe to drop any second now.

It doesn’t, and they can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief. Three months in, Eunji reinstates them at their regular positions, and the return to routine is welcome for once.

Hanse still isn’t back yet, is still in Incheon to keep his grandmother company as she recovers, but he keeps in touch with them through their KakaoTalk group chat. Tells them how glad he is and how he hopes they’re all doing fine. Chan’s arm is still in a cast, but the only distress he’s facing is from all the paperwork that’s been delegated to him now that he’s temporarily off the field.

It feels too good to be true. That the killer they’ve been doggedly chasing has simply decided to stop killing, simply disappeared off the grid altogether. Feels too perfect, too neat.

But that’s what the facts say, and they can’t refute it. Perhaps they don’t want to. It’s better, for them, for the potential victims, for everyone, if the killer has stopped for good.

Their makeshift office remains, just in case. Seungsik hopes they never have to use it again.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The sound of Seungsik’s keyboard is agitated in the silence of their headquarters.

He’s been writing this autopsy report for the past few hours. His mind can’t seem to focus, thoughts racing ahead of himself, racing back to stab wounds and an unknown killer even though it's been months. _Especially_ because it's been months.

“Maybe you should take a break,” Seungwoo says, placing a warm cup of tea in front of Seungsik, the scent of hibiscus and berries wafting from it. Seungsik still thinks he likes chamomile honey best. It’s simple and sweet. Like Seungwoo. “You look exhausted.”

He _feels_ exhausted. Doesn’t know why he’s still hung up on a case that has already been folded shut and stored away in the police station’s archives.

“I don’t want to sleep,” Seungsik says, fatigue drawing a little too much honesty out of him. “Don’t want to dream again.”

Seungwoo gazes at him with something akin to empathy. Reaches across the table to take Seungsik’s hand, thumb brushing over the back of it gently, comfortingly.

“I have an idea,” Seungwoo says, eyes bright. “Can I borrow a few hours of your time?”

Seungwoo’s idea turns out to be watching _Tangled_ together, curled up on the sofa with bowls of popcorn on their laps.

Seungsik fidgets, at first, the case still pricking at the back of his mind. Then he can’t help but fall into the movie, transfixed on the screen, enraptured. Hums along to the songs, voice soft and lilting. Gazes at Seungwoo, heart filling with warmth, as he sings _and at last I see the light._

By the end of the movie, Seungsik’s curled up next to Seungwoo, drifting in and out of sleep on his shoulder. Seungwoo kisses the crown of Seungsik’s head, then leans his head against his. He pulls the blankets up around them, and minutes later Seungsik falls asleep, peaceful and safe in Seungwoo’s arms.

  
Seungsik’s been to this bookstore more times than he can count, but this is the first time he’s brought someone else here, the first time he’s wanted to show its magic to someone just as special.

There’s a book he’s wanted to recommend to Seungwoo ever since he read it. _When I see a convenience store that has its lights illuminated all twenty-four hours, sometimes, I want to lower its shutters._ That line lingers in his mind, echoes the way he wishes Seungwoo didn’t always have to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders.

The book is on an upper shelf, so Seungsik gets on his tiptoes to reach it, fingers stretching towards the book’s spine. When he finally gets it down and turns to face Seungwoo excitedly, book outstretched, Seungwoo’s watching him fondly, his expression open and warm.

Seungwoo accepts the book without looking at it. Keeps gazing at Seungsik instead, at the curve of his smile and the crinkling of his eyes, like the books are Seungsik’s treasure but Seungsik is his.

“There was a place I used to run away to, back when I was a kid,” Seungwoo says, quietly. “I wanted to show it to you.”

They’re at a playground, tucked behind an elementary school that has long since shut down. The slides are faded, the monkey bars rusted, but Seungsik can imagine a tiny Seungwoo running about in the sand, steps light and laughs bright in his happy place.

They sit in comfortable silence, swaying on the swings that are just a tad too small for their grown-up frames. Seungsik closes his eyes, soaks in the warmth of the sun and Seungwoo’s presence.

“ _Seungsik-ah._ ”

Seungsik turns, opens his eyes to meet Seungwoo’s gaze. Seungwoo looks younger, more at ease. Almost peaceful. His shoulders look a little lighter.

Seungwoo’s smiling, softly. “Can I kiss you?”

Seungsik nods. Seungwoo pulls the swing’s chain and Seungsik loses his balance, but he isn’t afraid, because Seungwoo catches him before he can fall.

Seungwoo’s grip feels warm, safe. He cups the back of Seungsik’s neck and kisses him gently, like he’s made of stardust. Kisses him tenderly, like he’s never loved someone more.

They’re walking back to headquarters after dinner at the new ramen place down the street, when Seungwoo suddenly stops in his tracks.

He crouches down by the side of the path, peering at the tiny wildflowers growing there. Marvels at their resilience, for being able to grow and survive against the odds. Seungsik thinks it’s a little like them.

Out of nowhere, Seungwoo asks if Seungsik likes flowers. The next day, there’s a single coral tulip on Seungsik’s desk with a note, written in penmanship that’s distinctively Seungwoo’s.

_Your birth flower is the tulip, right? I searched it up, and someone said that it means you’re as beautiful as a blooming flower. I think they’re right._

_P.S. They also said that it means you will overcome loneliness and find everlasting love. Do you think that’s us, too?_

Six stab wounds. _Go Namsoon_ lies on his examiner’s table, cold and stiff and dead.

It's been eight months since the last murder. The wounds this time are messier, the point of entry not as clean as before. The skin is torn and jagged, like the murderer had plunged the knife in too fast.

His torso is crushed and mangled, from how the fallen goalpost had pinned him to the grass of the college’s soccer field. Dead from a broken rib puncturing his lung, from choking on his own blood. It’s the most gruesome murder yet.

“The killer’s getting unnerved,” Subin muses, scribbling something down in his profiler’s journal. “Impulsive, even. But why? Why did he suddenly return after all this time?”

They don’t find the answer at the crime scene, either. Chan ransacks every nook and cranny of the crime scene, his cast freshly off his arm, but even he turns up nothing. All of Byungchan’s tests come back clean, too.

Seungsik stares at the autopsy photos for hours, the weight of failure hanging over him, suffocatingly.

After the sixth murder that caught them all off guard, that yanked the rug out from under their feet, the entire task force is at a loss.

Seungwoo and Seungsik are, too. They clear away everything on the whiteboard and start from scratch, hoping that a fresh perspective will somehow turn up new leads, and that’s when Seungsik remembers the lavender.

He brings it up to Seungwoo, flipping through the forensic reports to show the lab results to Seungwoo. Then he pauses.

“You always smell of lavender.”

He says it like a question, like he’s hoping for Seungwoo to laugh it off. Like he’s hoping for Seungwoo to chide him, lightly, that lavender is a common smell.

Seungwoo doesn’t. Instead, Seungwoo comes clean.

“It was me,” Seungwoo confesses. Swallows, once, twice. “I kept getting text messages from a burner phone with a location, saying that I ought to go there if I didn’t want my sins to be revealed to the world. I went, and every time I found a body, freshly dead.”

Seungwoo pauses. Then: “There was a card, on each body. All of them had clues that pointed to me as the murderer of those victims. All of them had a message printed on them, warning me to confess and atone. All of them had the same ending line — _be punished for how you killed my brother._ ”

Silence stretches on. It’s too much to take in. Seungwoo continues, voice quiet. “I took the cards, because I didn’t want to be framed for murders I didn’t commit. I know who the murderer is, but I don’t know his name, or what he looks like, or where he is. I wanted to find him, so I could apologise to him. It’s true. My father was a hitman. I killed a child. I’m sorry.”

The murderer isn’t Seungwoo. It can’t be Seungwoo. His story is too elaborate, too unbelievable, to be a lie.

(Seungsik shouldn’t, but he believes him.)

Seungsik barely has time to process everything Seungwoo’s told him before life hurtles on ahead, breakneck speed.

There’s a seventh victim. Except this time, he isn’t dead; he’s an _attempted_ murder victim.

Ahn Hyoseok lies on the hospital bed, unmoving and comatose. His head is wrapped in several layers of bandages, and the numerous tubes feed oxygen into him as if they’re the only things tethering him to this world, amidst the feeble beeping of his heart rate monitor.

“Forensics did a luminol test, and they discovered traces of wiped blood, as well as a missing pair of fabric scissors,” Sejun says as he enters the room, sliding his phone into his pocket. He cocks his head at Hyoseok’s unconscious body. “He was assaulted in his studio. The culprit bashed his head in from behind with a mannequin, probably expecting to kill him on impact. Seems like he came to and managed to stab our killer in return, so he couldn’t finish the job.”

Sejun lays down several photos on the table. They show three stab wounds, all differing in depth and angle, driven into Hyoseok’s stomach. It’s a miracle none of them had punctured any vital organs.

“He’s left-handed, so the murderer will most likely have been wounded on his right arm,” Sejun concludes, tapping the photos thoughtfully. “His dominant arm. That would also explain why he fled instead of finishing the job.”

The lines of Hyoseok’s face are too soft, too young. It hurts to look at.

Seungsik closes his eyes, and wishes for him to wake up, one day, someday.

That night, at their headquarters, Seungwoo gets a text message from an unknown number.

A location, and a time. Seungsik glances at the clock, and it’s an hour from now.

_Come alone._

It’s an ultimatum. It’s not a choice. Seungwoo’s pulling on his coat before Seungsik even has time to process the message, black characters burning themselves into his retinas.

“You can’t,” Seungsik whispers, hoarsely, once it sinks in.

“I have to.” It’s a statement. There’s no room for objection. “I need to end things, once and for all.”

Seungsik’s moving before he realises it, fingers clasping around Seungwoo’s wrist.

“ _Hyung,_ ” Seungsik says, because he doesn’t know how to say _please stay,_ doesn’t know how to say _I don’t think I can bear losing you._

Gently, Seungwoo pulls Seungsik’s fingers away from his arm. Brings them up to his lips, a fleeting touch, then tugs Seungsik towards him. Kisses him on the forehead, then leans down to press love to his lips.

When Seungwoo finally pulls away, he’s gazing at Seungsik sadly, tenderly, as if he’s his entire world and then some.

“I promise I’ll come back,” Seungwoo murmurs, “so wait for me, okay?”

(Seungsik almost waits. Almost. But he’s so scared, so _terrified._ Knows he won’t be able to live with himself if he does nothing. If he ends up losing Seungwoo.

So he follows after him, and his footsteps have never been more sure in his life.)

Seungsik ends up tailing Seungwoo to an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of Seoul.

Seungwoo stands in its middle; open, alone. Seungsik watches him from behind stacks and stacks of metal containers, waiting for the murderer to appear. Waiting to jump out in Seungwoo’s defense if need be, though he isn’t sure he can actually be of any help apart from throwing himself in harm’s way.

Still, he supposes that’s better than nothing. Anything, as long as Seungwoo is safe.

There must be a sound Seungsik can’t hear, because Seungwoo turns to face the other side of the room, as if to greet someone as they approach. Seungsik braces himself, adjusts his grip on the glass bottle he’d scavenged as a makeshift weapon.

Then Chan steps out of the shadows, and Seungsik’s blood turns to ice in his veins.

The bottle slips from his hands before he realises it. Shatters to pieces on the ground.

Both men turn to his direction. Caught, Seungsik steps out on unsteady legs, one hand bracing himself against the containers as if his knees will buckle otherwise.

Chan’s dressed in all black, leather gloves and baseball cap and mask pulled down to his chin. There’s a knife holster buckled around his thigh. His right forearm is wrapped in a bandage, blood seeping through to stain it a deep red. The perfect picture of the murderer they’ve been searching for.

Seungsik still can’t see him as anyone else but his best friend.

He smiles, weakly. His voice is barely audible when he speaks. “Chan? You’re here for backup, right?”

Chan doesn’t respond, but the guilt is clear as day on his face. Seungsik’s smile turns pleading. “That’s how you know about this place. _Seungwoo-hyung_ called you here so you could help apprehend the culprit, right?” Turns to Seungwoo, voice cracking. “ _Hyung,_ that’s what this is, right?”

Seungsik can lie to himself, but Seungwoo can’t lie to him. The answer Seungsik so desperately wants to avoid stares back at him in Seungwoo’s sorrowful gaze, and all of a sudden it’s so painfully clear that Seungwoo and Chan have been caught red-handed, that both of them knew before he did, that both of them _kept him in the dark._

Hurt propels him through his daze, stumbling forward in one step, two steps, three. Seungwoo clocks his actions, then moves to stand in front of Seungsik like a reflex, as if to protect him.

_(What use is that now?)_

Seungsik walks past him anyway, Walks right up to Chan. Looks into his eyes, searching, searching, and whispers, voice small, “ _Why?_ ”

_The day Chan loses his brother, he’s ten years old._

_Heo Jun is eleven, and he’s just won a game of Jenga against Chan. He’s basking in his victory, crowing smugly that he gets to sleep in their parents’ bed tonight._

_Chan’s stubborn. Competitive. He manages to wheedle his hyung into playing for best two out of three, and proceeds to win both rounds. Victory tastes sweet on his tongue._

_He’s all tucked in for bed, curled up in between his parents, when everything begins to go wrong._

_His father sits up in bed with a start. Locks eyes with his mother, who’s straining to listen for something Chan can’t hear. Then the next thing he knows, they’re tugging him off the bed, crouching by its side._

_“Chan,” his mother whispers, and he’s never heard her say his name like that before. Never that urgent, never that desperate. “I need you to promise us one thing. No matter what you hear, don’t make a single sound, okay?”_

_Chan doesn’t understand why, doesn’t understand what’s going on. But he’s always been one to listen to his parents. He holds out a tiny hand, little finger jutting out. “Pinky promise.”_

_His mother’s eyes fill with tears. She pulls him into a hug, stroking his hair, a staccato rhythm._

_She lets go of him too soon. His father reaches out to cup his face in his hands, thumbs brushing over Chan’s cheeks. “We’ll always love you,” his father murmurs, apology thick in his voice and sorrow aching in his gaze. “Never forget that.”_

_Then they’re nudging him under the bed, all too quickly. They get back into bed barely seconds before the bedroom door creaks open._

_Gunshots ring out in the sudden silence, deafeningly loud to Chan's ten-year-old ears._

_His parents don't scream, and he doesn't either. Tastes blood in his mouth instead, smells the tang of rust punctuate the air. The back of his hand stings, but he doesn't dare to pull it from between his teeth._

_Mommy and Daddy asked him to promise them, and Chan doesn't break pinky promises. Chan's a good boy, so he'll stay quiet. Chan's a good boy, so he won't make a peep._

_He can see two pairs of feet. One of them is small, just like his own._

_Then the door is pushed open, and hyung stands in the doorway, frozen._

_From his vantage point under the bed, from that angle, he can see the shock that paints itself across his hyung’s face. Can see the way the tears shine devastatingly bright in his eyes._

_Can see every agonising second, as hyung opens his mouth to scream and the bullet tears through his chest before he even has the chance to._

_Hyung crumples to the ground, a broken bird._

_There’s the sound of something clinking, and the boy that looks around his age fumbles to catch something in his too-small hands._

_“Finish him off,” the man orders._

_Everything after that happens in a blur, wetness spilling over onto Chan’s cheeks. He sees the boy’s hands tremble for several, long seconds. He watches, transfixed in fear, as the man snatches the knife back, unsheathes it in one swift motion, and plunges it into hyung, his Jun-hyung._

_Again, and again. Chan counts to seven, the number bitter and acrid on the back of his tongue._

_“What’s so difficult about this?” he hears the man snarl. “I didn’t raise a weakling.”_

_His hyung lies in a pool of his own blood. The boy stares blankly at his dead body. Doesn’t move. Didn’t try to save him._

_“Han Seungwoo.”_

_The boy flinches, gaze flicking up to meet his father’s._

_“Treat this as a learning experience,” the man says, voice even and calm as if he hasn’t just torn the joy out of Chan’s life. “Come.”_

_Chan doesn’t dare to move, even after the pair leave, even after the sun rises and strangers flood into his home to ask him questions he can’t find the voice to answer._

_Han Seungwoo, Han Seungwoo, Han Seungwoo. The name sears itself into his memory._

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Contrary to the months they’d spent trying to track him down, Chan’s arrest goes surprisingly fast. Maybe it’s the conclusive evidence they’d managed to gather, or maybe it’s the way Chan confesses to all his crimes once he’s taken into custody, weariness and resignation slumping his shoulders.

Seungsik isn’t there for most of it. The case is taken out of his hands, handed over to the higher-ups in a flurry of paperwork and court trials. Seungsik’s sent back to the autopsy lab, where he returns to slicing up corpses and tries not to wonder what the dead bodies felt like under Chan’s fingertips.

When he spaces out in the lab and it takes three calls of his name for the sound to register, Yein doesn’t ask him any questions, and he’s fine. When he skips Tuesday meetings because he doesn’t think he can bear sitting at the table with an empty chair, Eunji lets it slide, and he’s fine. When the nights get too lonely and too sobering and he ends up retching soju and bile several hours later, he pretends it never happens, and he’s fine.

It’d taken them a year to fill up the little basement room, to make it their own, but it takes just a matter of hours for it to be stripped bare once again.

They tear down their makeshift evidence board easily enough, marker scrawlings erased with a few swipes of a duster. Stacks and stacks of case notes go into the trashcan, no longer needed.

The other things, though, are harder to sort out. The pile of blankets and cushions they’d accumulated over the all-nighters they’d pulled together. The small microwave that Seungwoo bought so that Seungsik would always have something warm to eat. The navy blue sweater that Seungsik’s worn more times in the past year than Seungwoo has in the entire time he’s owned it. Who do they belong to now? How do they split the things that were always meant to be shared?

(Seungsik supposes it doesn’t matter. Not anymore. Not after what’s happened, and what’s about to happen. Not when the memories will remain anyway, lingering in the crevices of his heart.)

Outside, the winter winds nip at their fingers curled around their duffel bags, at the corners of their lips curved up into something wistful.

“I guess this is goodbye for now, then?” Seungwoo quips, lightly, as if this is just another ordinary day. As if he isn’t going to be tried for murder in the coming months. Just _goodbye,_ as if everything they’ve known hasn’t changed.

He takes a step forward, takes a step away. Seungsik reaches out instinctively, then pulls back at the very last second. Misses Seungwoo just barely, fingers curling in on themselves instead, tentative and sad.

“ _Hyung,_ ” Seungsik starts, voice cracking. “I— I have something I need to say.”

Seungwoo turns, gaze guileless and expectant. Like anything Seungsik could possibly say would still be music to his ears, like Seungsik isn’t about to break his heart.

(Like Seungsik isn’t about to break his own.)

It takes a second, five, ten. Takes a few false starts and several stuttered breaths for Seungsik to eke out, voice small, “I think we should take a break.”

Seungwoo doesn’t look surprised. Doesn’t seem like he’s been caught off guard at all. Maybe he’d seen it coming, in the way he’s somehow always known Seungsik’s heart before Seungsik can decipher it himself.

“He’s my best friend,” Seungsik says. He doesn’t meet Seungwoo’s gaze. “It’s been years, I can’t—”

He stops short. Can’t what, exactly? Can’t catch himself in time before he’s typing out a text to Chan, finger hovering over the _send_ button? Can’t pretend he doesn’t hear the ghost of Chan’s laugh whenever he makes his own coffee on dreary Tuesday mornings? Can’t look at Seungwoo and not see the tears that shone in Chan’s eyes, the despair that painted itself across his best friend’s face?

He doesn’t know what answer to give. Doesn’t know what choice he can make that won’t hurt either of the two people he holds closest to his heart, so he settles for a weak smile instead. Says, quietly, haltingly, “I don’t blame you for any of it. I don’t. Maybe that makes me a bad person. It probably does. I know I shouldn’t, but I still—“

His breath escapes him in a shaky exhale, fogging up in the cold December air. He can’t say it, can’t push the words out from where they’re lodged in his throat. Saying them would make it all too real, and he can’t. Can’t let himself have that, can’t let his heart be traitorous a second time.

He inhales, sharply. The night air is biting in his throat, but he welcomes it. It feels like punishment, like penance. “I think I need time. I’m sorry.”

Seungwoo doesn’t respond, just continues to gaze at him with that tender expression. Then he reaches out to cup Seungsik’s face, and even though Seungsik sees it coming he still shuts his eyes. Like if he doesn’t, his heart is going to fold in upon itself, going to crumble into too many fragments for him to piece back together again.

“You’re a good person,” Seungwoo whispers, voice quiet and tender.

Seungsik’s eyes flutter open. Seungwoo’s hand is hovering next to his face, barely centimetres away. It takes all of Seungsik’s willpower not to lean into his touch.

“Can I kiss you?”

He should say no. Should end things here, cut it off cleanly before his heartstrings tie him down. Should yank himself back from the brink before he ends up going over, before he gives away even more of his heart than he already has, before he ends up pardoning his own selfishness.

Instead, Seungsik nods. Closes his eyes again as Seungwoo leans in, braces himself for the tears that are already pricking behind his eyes.

The kiss doesn’t come, not like he expects. Seungwoo presses his lips against the crown of his head, gentle and chaste and fleeting, and when he pulls back it feels like something inside of Seungsik is breaking, breaking, broken.

“You don’t have to come back to me,” Seungwoo says, too softly, too kindly. “Just promise me that you’ll live well?”

The winter of December is always frigid, but this one feels even more so. Feels like Seungsik’s iced over, like the cold has sunk its claws deep into the marrow of his bones and pried fissures into his bleeding heart.

“Okay,” Seungsik murmurs, and his voice sounds like it’s coming from too far away, like it’s lost at sea amidst the waves that crash over and threaten to engulf him whole. “I promise.”

Life returns to normalcy after that. The special task force is officially dissolved, each of them going back to their rightful places.

The bustle of routine makes the days pass by easier. Seungsik spends most of his time mentoring Yein, hovering over his shoulder as he slices open the corpses Seungsik can’t bring himself to touch.

Hanse drops by the lab from time to time. Asks Seungsik out for drinks, claiming he needs advice from his favourite _hyung._

It’s obvious to anyone that it’s just an excuse to meet. Seungsik lets himself be dragged along anyway, follows Hanse to his favourite _izakaya_ and pretends the sashimi tastes like anything other than ashes on his tongue.

Hanse talks for a while. Isn’t bothered, bless his soul, when Seungsik’s responses start slurring somewhere into his second or third or fourth bottle. He pretends to clear the dishes on the table instead, and nudges the plate of sashimi closer to Seungsik, as if by accident.

“Ah, but that’s enough about myself,” Hanse says, tactfully shifting the spotlight away from himself and onto Seungsik. “What about you? How are you doing?”

Hanse’s tone is light, but his gaze is level. Piercing. It feels like he’s seeing right through him, and Seungsik can’t help but avert his gaze. Chews on his lip, tugs on the drawstrings of the oversized hoodie he’s wearing that isn’t Seungwoo’s.

His throat twists up, itches with words unsaid, words he can’t say. It’s a feeling he’s grown used to, in the same way he’s grown used to washing it away with the burn of alcohol when he’s too lonely to sleep and too exhausted to stay awake.

Dimly, Seungsik realises his glass is empty. How much has he drunk already? He doesn’t think he knows. His mind feels like it’s thick with cotton, feels like it’s fogged over like his breath did on that winter night. He needs more soju. His glass is empty; he should refill it.

He picks up a new bottle, unscrews its cap, and almost brings it to his lips by force of habit.

He catches himself just in time. Pours it into his glass like he’s supposed to, a little too fast, a few drops of soju sloshing over the edge.

If Hanse notices, he doesn’t let on. He smooths over the lapse in conversation instead, and when Seungsik says he’s doing just fine, he doesn’t call him out on the lie.

On the night of December 24th, Seungsik almost calls Seungwoo. 

He stops himself at the last second, finger halting right before it makes contact with the screen. The glare of his phone screen is harsh in the dark of his room.

He tells himself it’s because he doesn’t have the courage to face an unending dial tone, but it’s a lie. Seungwoo would pick up within seconds. Seungsik knows that, and maybe that’s why. Seungwoo has always been too selfless, too giving, too loving. At least if he doesn’t hear Seungwoo’s voice, he can pretend his resolve isn’t crumbling, can pretend he isn’t still helplessly, _despairingly,_ in love with him.

He types out a message instead. Deletes and rewrites it over and over again, until _happy birthday_ turns into _how are you_ turns into _I miss you, hyung._

He doesn’t send it.

Maybe it’s courage, maybe it’s cowardice. Maybe it’s something else entirely, like the weight of the words he never said that night.

_(Is it truly better to have loved, and lost, than to never have loved at all?)_

Once Yein’s learnt all there is for Seungsik to teach, Seungsik quits his job.

It’s a decision several months in the making. What use is a medical examiner that can’t touch dead bodies without their ghosts haunting him? Without _his_ ghosts haunting him?

Eunji watches him with sorrowful eyes as he hands her his resignation letter, but she takes it without a word. Yein pulls him into a hug, too gentle and too warm, and accepts Seungsik’s gift of his scalpel with an apologetic smile.

The rest of his goodbyes are harder to say. He drops by the police station, because it’s easier to say it all at once, to rip off the bandage before the hurt it’s concealing has a chance to fester.

“You’ll come back to visit from time to time, right? Team dinners won’t be the same without you,” Sejun whines, clinging petulantly onto Seungsik’s arm. The pout of his lips is intentionally exaggerated, but Seungsik humours him anyway, tells him to contact him anytime. It’s the least he can do, really, with how abruptly he’s springing this on them.

He chances a look at the rest of their now-defunct team, gathered around him in a half-circle. There’s an unreadable look in Hanse’s eyes, the same one he’d had back at the _izakaya._ It’s a gaze that’s probing despite already knowing the answers, like he understands too much and not enough all at once.

Seungsik isn’t asking for understanding. Doesn’t want to, doesn’t know how to, not when he can barely understand the whispers of his own heart. All he hopes is that they can forgive him for this, that they can pretend they don’t see him falling apart at the seams.

He’s pulled away from his thoughts by a box of snacks shoved into his hands by a miffed Byungchan. The flaps on one end have been taped down from where they’d been torn open before.

“If you’d given us advance notice, maybe we’d have been able to prepare a proper goodbye gift for you,” Byungchan huffs, crossing his arms indignantly. “Instead, I had to fish this out of the pantry. You might want to check the expiration date.”

Seungsik almost laughs. Would laugh, if he had the energy to. Instead, he offers up a lopsided smile as Sejun cackles with Byungchan, a little too loudly.

Subin steps forward then, from where he’d been hanging back before. Seungsik’s always thought that Subin’s mature beyond his years, but it’s even more evident now, in the subtle furrow of his brows and the gravitas in his gaze.

“Hyung,” Subin says, quiet and sincere. “Promise me you’ll take care?”

Seungsik falters for a moment, then manages to plaster the lopsided smile back onto his face. “You take care too, okay?”

He expects objections from his parents when he breaks the news to them a week later, but none come. There must be something in his eyes, something written across his face, because their protests die on their lips the moment they look at him. His mother invites him to stay for dinner instead, coaxing his jacket off his weary shoulders.

Over a warm pot of _kimchijjigae_ and too many side dishes to count, they tell him that they just want him to be happy. Seungsik doesn’t have the heart to tell them that he doesn’t know _how._

The trials go on for months.

In the end, Seungwoo gets acquitted because of the statute of limitations expiring. Or was it because that law doesn't apply to accessory to murder? Something like that. The details escape Seungsik, lost amidst bitten fingernails and uttered prayer. He didn't keep up with the case, so he wouldn't know. He didn't read a single news article about it, and he didn't search up every iteration of murder laws until the librarians had to kick him out, and he didn't write every trial date down in a journal tucked underneath his pillow.

(It's a lie. He remembers caving, remembers giving in to his heart — when has he not? — and attending the final trial. Remembers slipping into the last row fifteen minutes after the court session began, baseball cap slung low over his face as if it could possibly conceal the dampness in his eyes.

He doesn't look at Seungwoo. Not until the last moment, not until the gavel sounds and the trial ends and keeping his eyes trained on the floor starts to take more strength than he can manage.

Their gazes meet, and Seungsik immediately regrets it. Doesn't think he can ever erase this image from memory. Seungwoo looks guilty. Defeated. _Understanding._

Why is there understanding? Seungsik doesn't deserve that.)

Seungsik writes.

Sometimes it's poetry, sometimes it's lyrics that he sings into the quiet nights. Sometimes — most times — he has to pretend he doesn't feel his breath quavering, has to pretend he doesn't hear the way his voice catches on the words _is this goodbye._

He writes. Sometimes the songs complete themselves, words tumbling out from his fingers as the puppy figurine Seungwoo had gifted him watches from its perch on his desk. Most times, they come to their end as crumpled-up sheets of paper tossed into his wastepaper basket, bars and bars of chord progressions dragged to the recycle bin.

There are too many fermatas in Seungsik’s compositions, holding their notes for longer than they’re supposed to last. He feels like one of them, suspended indefinitely in time, a broken train on a broken track spinning its broken wheels in place.

(He doesn’t stop writing, but the fermatas don’t stop drawing themselves, either.)

When Seungsik makes his biweekly visit, Chan’s smiling at him before he even sits down.

Chan looks more at ease now, the tension that had wound his shoulders tight all those years finally releasing its hold on him. He’s filled out his prison uniform more since the day he first put it on. His cheeks are rosy now, no longer hollow and gaunt.

“You look better,” Seungsik comments, by way of greeting. “Is the food here that good?”

Chan levels him with an unimpressed look. “Michelin three-star, absolutely.”

It elicits a laugh out of Seungsik, small yet bright. It’s the first one he’s managed in a while.

“I mean it, though. You seem happier,” Seungsik says, smiling softly, genuinely.

Chan returns the smile, lips curving in the way Seungsik’s missed seeing. “Finding closure does that to a person,” he says, lightly. “It feels like I’ve finally said a proper goodbye to _hyung._ Like I’ve finally laid him to rest, along with the weight of my sins.”

Chan’s eyes are clear, no longer fettered by regret. “That’s good,” Seungsik murmurs. “I’m glad.”

“Enough about me, though,” Chan says, leaning forward. “How about you? How have you been?”

Caught off guard, Seungsik pauses for a beat too long. “I’m doing well,” he says eventually, and hopes his voice is as composed as it sounds in his head. “Just the usual.”

Chan doesn’t respond. Gazes at Seungsik, instead, with more kindness than Seungsik thinks he deserves. It feels like Chan is seeing right through him, past the feeble defenses he’d somehow managed to scrape together amidst sleepless nights and muted longing.

“You miss him.”

It isn’t a question. Seungsik can’t refute it, can’t lie through his teeth. Not in front of Chan, who still knows him better than anyone else in the world does, even in a faded blue uniform behind a plexiglass wall.

“I shouldn’t,” Seungsik says. The polaroid they'd taken together is still tucked behind the coin pocket of his wallet, but at least he hasn’t pulled it out in a while. Baby steps, even if everything else he’s doing feels like he’s stumbling backwards on shaky legs. “I can’t let myself.”

Chan sighs. Places his hand against the glass, like he wants nothing more than to reach out and hold Seungsik’s.

“You don’t have to hold yourself back because of me, you know,” Chan says, quietly.

“How can I not, when I never noticed anything,” Seungsik blurts out, voice hoarse in its rawness. He can’t accept Chan’s forgiveness, not when he’s done nothing to deserve it. “When I couldn’t even see how much you were suffering?”

Chan shakes his head. “You taught me how to smile again,” he murmurs, eyes shining. “You made the days bearable. You’ll always be my best friend, Sik.”

Guilt is a heavy, crippling thing. So is love. Seungsik can’t stop his face from crumpling, can’t form words through the tears that spill over. He raises a trembling hand, pressing it against the glass, pressing it to Chan’s.

“I just want you to be happy,” Chan says, gently. “Don’t waste your years like I did.”

The seasons pass in a blur, sands of time slipping through his fingers.

Yein invites himself over to Seungsik’s apartment somewhere into autumn, carrying bags full of his grandmother’s homemade _banchan._ He fusses over Seungsik for wearing clothes too thin for September (he hadn’t noticed summer was over), clears away the things strewn haphazardly across the rooms (he hadn’t had the strength to do it himself), and whips up a homecooked lunch for Seungsik (a proper meal, for once).

Yein’s kind, too kind. He doesn’t ask Seungsik how he’s doing, doesn’t update him on the autopsy lab or the police station. Doesn’t say anything that will hurt. He coaxes Seungsik out of his room instead, coaxes him out of his house. Takes Seungsik to his favourite cafe, and leads him up to the rooftop terrace to show him the view.

The wind is light in Seungsik’s hair. The sky stretches on above him, a boundless expanse, clear and blue in a way he hadn’t thought possible since that night.

“I thought you might like this place,” Yein murmurs, gently. There isn’t anything in his voice but sincerity. “I come here whenever I need to clear my mind, so I was hoping it could do the same for you.”

They aren’t the only patrons on the roof, but for a moment Seungsik feels like they are. Feels like he’s rediscovering the things he’d forgotten, like how the breeze feels against his skin, how the tea tastes on his tongue. How to close his eyes and not have a too-familiar face flash behind his eyelids.

“It does,” Seungsik says, and means it. “Thank you.”

After that, he stops turning his friends down when they ask him out. He goes to the movies with Sejun, and to the gym with Byungchan. Spends hours playing _Street Fighter II_ at the arcade with Subin, and treats him to a meal at his favourite restaurant afterwards. Lets Hanse drag him to the _noraebang,_ and doesn’t feel like an impostor when he raises the microphone to his lips and sings an upbeat song. Manages to return all of Chan’s smiles, bright and fond and genuine.

He starts exploring the town more, too. It’s something he never had the time for, back when he was stuck in medical school chasing his parents’ dreams, or sequestered away in the lab chasing down the truth. Seoul is full of life, moreso now that he no longer has the weight of death bearing down on his shoulders. He’s starting to discover the city, to stumble upon the sparks of magic hidden in unassuming corners, to enjoy its vibrant bustle in the day and its tranquil solitude at night.

Everything keeps reminding Seungsik of the past, though. Of _him._ The street cats, purring and nuzzling against his leg; the sticks of cotton candy, proffered to him by enthusiastic street vendors; the little handmade figurine shop, which he always has to give a wide berth to whenever he passes by. He has to pretend he doesn’t pause in his tracks every time he hears a voice that’s a tad too similar, has to pretend he doesn’t do a double take, heart pounding in his chest, whenever he catches a glimpse of someone who looks just the slightest bit familiar in the faceless crowd.

At first, it hurts. Like a splinter lodged inside tender flesh, like an ulcer on the inside of his cheek that won’t quite heal. Then over time it fades away to a dull ache, to a wistfulness that lingers in his throat but no longer mists his eyes.

He writes more songs. It’s as much a routine as it is an excuse for him to get out of the house before his thoughts begin to consume him again. He makes a challenge out of it, to find a new cafe every once in a while, lest he fall back into an endless cycle of monotony again.

It’s getting better, really. He’s getting better. The days don’t bleed into one another as much anymore, and neither do the nights stretch on, no longer seemingly endless like they used to be. Seungsik can smile now, can laugh now, and if it comes out a little forced sometimes, his friends don’t call him out on it.

Seungsik doesn’t think he can ever forget. His heart is still remembering, still lingering. But it’s fine. Maybe if he buries that thing called _memory_ deep enough in his chest, there’ll be a day when it all fades away, disappears altogether like melting snow.

(The truth is: He doesn’t think that day will ever come.)

(The truth is: Maybe he doesn’t want it to.)

It’s a warm day, just on the cusp of spring, when Seungsik’s world shifts on its axis.

He’s visiting a new cafe today, one tucked away in the winding streets of Yeonhui-dong. It’s an area he’s never been to before, but it’s a welcome change in environment, something he needs after the past few days of unproductivity. Maybe a different view, a different cup of coffee, will help him finish the last verse of the song he’s been working on.

It takes him a while, and several wrong turns, to find the cafe. In his defense, it’s easy to miss; its ivory-brick exterior is simple and unassuming amidst the monotone of Seoul’s buildings. He wouldn’t have noticed it if not for the pot of tulips sitting on the cafe’s windowsill, coral petals radiant in the sunlight.

The seashells hanging from the door tinkle as Seungsik pushes the door open to soft strains of music and the light murmur of chatter. Then he looks up, accidentally locks eyes with the barista, and almost lets his laptop slip from his grasp.

It feels like all the strength is bleeding out of him, rooting him to the ground instead. Feels like if he takes another step, if he so much as blinks, _Han Seungwoo_ will disappear like a mirage, like he’s done so many times in his dreams.

Then the door chimes jingle, and a customer bumps into him, jostling him out of his shock in her attempt to squeeze past him. Seungsik stumbles forward, and when he looks up again he’s holding his breath, but Seungwoo is still there. Still there, frozen in the midst of mixing a drink, eyes wide like he’s seen a ghost.

Seungsik looks away first. Has to whirl around to hide the tears welling up in his eyes, has to hug his laptop close to still his beating heart.

He should leave and never come back here again, but he doesn’t. His feet lead him to the booth in the farthest corner instead, and he doesn’t know whether it’s courage or cowardice, but he sits down despite the fear twisting itself through his veins.

The arctic fox figurine sits atop the cafe’s display case. Seungsik wishes he hadn’t seen it.

It feels like an eternity passes, Seungsik unable to do anything but wring his hands the entire time, before Seungwoo sets two cups on the table and slides into the seat opposite him.

Seungsik looks down. His cup has chamomile tea, a single flower floating in it. He can smell the faint scent of honey.

“It’s been a while,” Seungwoo says, like he’s not quite sure how to begin this conversation. His tone is polite, almost rehearsed. “How have you been?”

“I’ve been alright,” Seungsik answers, even though it’s the furthest thing from the truth. He smiles, and hopes it somehow reaches his eyes, too. “How about you?”

Seungwoo pauses. Seungsik waits.

“Can I be honest?” Seungwoo asks, eventually. He must see Seungsik’s answer in his eyes, because he’s continuing on, even without Seungsik saying a single word.

(It hurts. Hurts that some things haven’t changed, even after all this while. Hurts that it makes it harder to forget, to leave him — _them_ — behind in the past.)

“I’d be lying if I said I’ve been doing fine,” Seungwoo admits, achingly candid. “It took me a while to stop turning as if to talk to you, to remember I couldn’t text you whenever I saw something that reminded me of you. I thought I was getting my life together by taking up lessons and working legitimate jobs, but I think I just wanted to be someone you wouldn’t be ashamed to know.”

It’s unfair, really. How is it that Seungwoo can say such things, can admit the truth with such honesty? How can he remain so composed, when even till this day, till this moment, Seungsik still feels like he’s on the verge of crumbling?

It takes several seconds, several gulps of tea, for Seungsik to find his voice. “I meant what I said to you that night,” he murmurs. “I didn’t blame you back then. I still don’t. I was selfish; I was afraid I’d lose you. Hanse said that I looked like a dead man walking in the months after I broke up with you, because I didn’t know how to stop missing you. But I healed. It took months, but I healed. I went cycling by the Han river, watched movies at home after work, took photos of the flowers I saw on the streets. It didn’t feel the same, doing all those things without you, but I _tried._ ” Seungsik draws in a shaky breath, as if to fill the gaping space that still remains in his heart. It doesn’t work this time, either. “Isn’t it funny? Even after all that, I still don’t know how to fill the space you left behind.”

It should feel like a weight off his shoulders, but it doesn’t. It makes him feel small instead, like his carefully-layered defenses have been peeled away, leaving him painfully raw in front of Seungwoo. It should be terrifying, but it isn’t. It isn’t, not at all, because it’s Seungwoo.

“I went to your favourite bookstore,” Seungwoo confesses, looking up from his coffee to meet Seungsik’s gaze. “The one with the floor-to-ceiling shelves. Your favourite record shop, too, and the bakery you used to buy madeleines from whenever we passed by. I went there, over and over again. I told myself it was because I wanted to know if you were doing fine, because I wanted to see you smile and laugh and be happy.”

Seungwoo pauses, like he’s afraid to say his next words. Stirs his coffee once, twice, even though it’s long since gone cold. Seungsik’s hands curl around his own cup, fingers picking at the teabag’s string.

“I thought that if I ran into you, maybe I could call it fate,” Seungwoo finally says. “Maybe I could pretend it was the universe and not my selfishness that brought you to me again.”

Then he laughs, ruefully, as if Seungsik’s heart isn’t stumbling over itself, lurching forward to grab onto a thing called _hope._ “But I didn’t see you even once. I guess that was the universe’s way of telling me that I didn’t deserve you, that I should try to let go of you. As if I ever could.”

As if Seungsik ever could, either. He can’t tell Seungwoo that he hadn’t gone to any of those places in the months that followed, can’t tell him how he hadn’t had the strength to leave his house at all. Can’t tell him how, once, twice, too many times, he’d gone to visit Chan only to see Seungwoo's name on the visitation list and run out, desperately, in hopes of seeing him. How he’d never succeeded, never caught even the slightest glimpse of Seungwoo. How after his breaths had evened out, he hadn’t been able to feel anything other than crushing disappointment and stinging guilt.

“And yet, here we are,” Seungsik says instead, quietly. His traitorous heartbeats thrum loud in his ears. “The universe has a way of playing with us, doesn’t it?”

“If it does, then I’m glad for it,” Seungwoo answers, his gaze certain, his voice sure. “I missed you, Seungsik. So much. Too much. More than I know how to express in words.”

Outside, the first buds of spring have begun to bloom. Tiny splashes of colour dot the streets, like the seeds of hope buried deep in Seungsik’s yearning that are slowly beginning to unfurl.

“You taught me that home isn’t a place,” Seungwoo says, softly. “You taught me that the sun can shine bright in someone’s smile, that the melody of birdsong can be heard in someone’s laugh. You taught me how to love, and be loved in return.”

It feels like an echo, like a realisation. Why Seungsik’s lyrics always speak of the muted melancholy in someone’s voice, of a fireplace’s warmth in someone’s gaze. Why the ink that spills from his pen forms words like _forever_ and _happiness_ and _home._

After all this time, Seungsik thinks he's learnt something about courage. He steels himself to swallow the guilt clawing its way up his throat, and when he speaks his voice is small and unsure and afraid.

"Can we... Can we start over?"

Seungwoo doesn't react. The silence stretches on, heavy in its expectation. There's nothing but the hands of time ticking on, marching forward as if Seungsik hasn't been left behind in the dust, rooted helplessly in place.

Seungsik lets his gaze drop. Offers up a small, sad smile, and tries to pretend his heart is still whole. "I’m sorry, I'm asking for too much, aren't I? After the way I ended things between us back then, I don't have the right to—"

"No, it's not that," Seungwoo cuts in, voice breathless, gaze fixed on Seungsik. "It's just... I've dreamt of you saying that so many times that it almost doesn't feel real."

It's Seungsik's turn to freeze up. His breath halts in his throat, stuttering for a second. He has to be dreaming. This is wishful thinking, manifesting itself into hope that is only going to be dashed yet again. It's too good to be true, too much of a miracle for him to allow himself to—

To _what,_ exactly? To confuse naive dreams and sobering reality again? To hope, even if just for a fraction of a second, that he could have Seungwoo back?

(To _love?_ )

Seungwoo reaches across the table. Takes Seungsik's fingertips between his own, intertwining them just barely.

"Seungsik-ah," Seungwoo murmurs, softly, hopefully. “Will you be my boyfriend?"

The tears well up before Seungsik can even realise they're there. Months upon months of longing chokes his voice and spills out of him in quavering breaths, and he's nodding before he knows it, his heart speaking — _singing_ — for the first time since that winter night.

Seungwoo’s looking at him gently, tenderly. As if he sees the universe’s worth of stars in the dark of Seungsik’s eyes, as if the lands could crumble and the oceans could dry up and even then he would never stop loving Seungsik. As if he’s finally found his way back home.

As if _they’re_ finally home. Seungsik’s heart feels like it's blooming, filling up to the brim with all the pieces he thought he'd lost, all the dreams he'd tried to chase away.

Smiling, Seungsik takes Seungwoo's hand. It's warm in his.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading ♡
> 
> please excuse any scientific inaccuracies, i am but a liberal arts student with an overwhelming love for crime dramas and mystery novels :”) [stares into the distance at the hours and hours of research i had to put into this... dear secret fbi man i swear i'm not a murderer]
> 
> the line that seungsik quotes is from lee dowoo’s ‘because the night is a good time to tell stories’, one of the books that 2seung read on kick the blankets.
>
>> _prompt #071: seungsik is a medical examiner on a particularly tricky case. in order to solve it, he's going to need some help from seungwoo, a man who knows far too much and is telling far too little. problem is, all records say seungwoo has been dead for years._   
> 
> 
> thank you to the lovely prompter for writing such a beautifully intriguing prompt and giving me the push i needed to finally write crime fiction! i hope i managed to meet your expectations (*˙˘˙*)
> 
> lots of love to persimmon, for holding my hand throughout the writing process. ♡
> 
> p.s. if you recognise any of the murder victims you’re the best and i love you too!!
> 
> \+ come yell at me at [@berryheoni](https://twitter.com/berryheoni) uwu


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